


Arthur Morgan and the Dead Hand

by radicalskeletal



Series: By My Side, He Seemed To Me Like a Ghost [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: M/M, spoilers for chapter 4 and up, tomorrow we hurt, tonight we fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 18:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17492912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radicalskeletal/pseuds/radicalskeletal
Summary: This is America, after all. Loving killers is part of our makeup.





	Arthur Morgan and the Dead Hand

“Blasted, wretched—”

“Here.” Arthur kidnapped the flint and steel from Albert's hands.

Albert sat back from his sad stab at restarting the fire and clapped his hands on his thighs in frustration. “Can't you come by those honestly?”

“I would, if I had time to wait around for you. But I mean to eat these rabbits tonight, not at your convenience.”

“Bad manners, sir. Another word out of you and I'll be forced to boot you out of my operation here.” But he was smiling, and warmth bloomed in Arthur's chest like spilled honey, warming him from his neck to his fingertips. He held up his hands in defeat before cracking the flint and steel together until the sparks alighted on the dry tinder of grass and a shred cast off from Arthur's saddle blanket.

Tonight's supper was rabbits and canned beans. Albert had ridden into town to attend to his business as Arthur had hunted for their dinner in the plains. They'd met again and made camp on a rise south of the Upper Montana River, with one less horse than they had started with that day.

Albert had finally taken Arthur's money for tack just before he'd ridden into town. Albert was, to Arthur's bewilderment, quite possibly the most stubborn son of a bitch he had ever met, and he wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen it himself. Maybe in the east they were handing out awards for being the most pigheaded. Arthur had never met anyone less happy to take his money.

Arthur didn't want to admit it, but riding for two days in a row had tightened his lungs like fists. Every breath staggered weakly in his chest. He coughed, ragged and breathless, and spat blood in the dirt like a curse. He felt sticky and weak in the heat. To his disgrace, Arthur sat and let the rest and tea open his lungs as Albert made camp by his side.

“I said I'd look after you, and I meant it,” Albert had reminded him plainly when he had come back with water from the river. Those simple words had cleared the dark cloud of shame.

“I feel I'll never get this road dust out of my eyes,” Albert admitted now, sprinkling thyme on the meat.

“I know the feeling. We can wash up in the river after dinner, if we can avoid the beavers.” He squinted at Albert out of the corner of his eye and waited for the show.

Albert froze. “Beavers, you say? Are they really so close?”

Arthur fought down a smile. “Really, Mr. Mason? I'd think that they'd be too tame for your interest.”

“No, not at all! They're beautiful creatures! Did you know that they've been hunted to near extinction in most other parts of the country? They're responsible for creating the wetlands that many species depend on. They're critical for maintaining the balance of the wilderness!”

“I get your meaning.”

“Oh, I'll never get a good shot in this light!”

“I'm sure we can delay our ride for a few hours tomorrow morning, if you can wait that long.”

“Loathsomely, I regret to say I'm forced to. Damn this nightfall. They've been all but destroyed out east, Mr. Morgan. Perhaps I can spare them here.”

“That sounds like a problem for tomorrow. Rabbit, please, before the fire grows weary of our jawing and dies again.”

The heat was so great that their shirts stuck to their backs and the prairie dirt caked in the sweat on their arms. The fire was almost unbearable. They ate, and Albert asked Arthur about his sketches and where he got inspiration. Arthur grunted short answers until he could turn the conversation to Albert's photography. Albert confessed how he had begun saving for a camera at fourteen, and it had taken him months, collecting money doing odd jobs in stockyards and factories and sawmills. The latter, Albert said, was where he learned how mankind had crowned himself king of the earth, and an awful king he was.

Albert was a good man, Arthur thought, not for the first time since meeting him. He was able to see the grace in something dangerous. Despite being unfit for anything beyond a polished life, he had a calling to save dangerous creatures from the threat of man. It could have been all rabbits and squirrels for Albert Mason, but he had chosen to save the nastiest man-eating beasts to be found because he thought they were wild and beautiful, and he knew that no one else could love their nature but him, not unless he helped others understand them as he did.

Pride and devotion squeezed Arthur's throat. He'd help Albert, but he couldn't keep pulling the wool over this man's eyes. “I'm not a good man, Mr. Mason.”

Albert, damn him, didn't recoil, even if the light in his eyes dimmed.

Arthur gritted his teeth. He had to finish what he'd started now. “This, Mason? This is as nice as I get. So you and I might understand one another, let me explain something to you. I'm not a good man. Not even close. I have to think, I have to try to be a good man. I've killed and robbed. I used to think I was only doing it to people that deserved it, but now I'm not even sure of that. Albert, I got consumption from a man after I beat him to death for owing me money.”

Albert looked at him, eyes searching, until he said, “Speak plainly, Mr. Morgan, are you making fun of me? I confess that I'm guilty of being a dimwit, but my senses haven't entirely left me.”

“Stop—”

“Arthur Morgan, until a few weeks ago your face was in every newspaper and your posters were in every post office between here and Lemoyne. I'm a stranger here, but I pick up enough to know that you're a wanted man. I knew before you even helped me photograph alligators in the swamp. I'm not a wise man, but it's hard to ignore that you've been trifling with a wanted murderer when he has a price of five thousand dollars on his head.”

Arthur's mouth worked helplessly in the face of the caprice of his friend. “Mr. Mason, I don't...” His voice faded off, dry and crushed, all the surety of a palm full of sand.

Albert seemed unwilling to break the silence. He was slumped by the fire, bashfully picking imaginary lint from his trousers.

Arthur's eyes felt misty and hot. Never in his life had he been so caught of guard, and here he was, like a weepy idiot. How many women had turned away from him in the face of what he'd done? He understood, but that didn't mean that it hadn't gutted him every time. He cleared his throat and clenched his fist to curl his fingernails into the palm of his hand until the dumbfounded wetness crept away. “Trifling? That's quite a way of putting it.”

“Forgive me, I couldn't think of a less presumptuous way of relating it.”

“I understand.” What was he to say? His heart begged him to ask the most foolish question: Are you alright with this? Arthur scoffed at the idea. Of course he wouldn't be alright with it. If he had been, he doubted the two of them would have gotten on very well in the first place.

“It hasn't changed my opinion of you. You're still the gentleman I've always known you to be.” His gaze was steady and the corner of his mouth was tilted up, even if Arthur couldn't meet his eyes.

Arthur's breath punched out of him in his surrender. Gathering himself, he joked, “I've more or less given up hope that you and I will ever agree on what exactly a gentleman is.”

“Well, to this poor sod, you're a gentleman.”

Albert didn't look hungry, but he scraped up the last of his beans and downed them quickly. “Come with me, Mr. Morgan. We could both use a dip, don't you think?”

Arthur followed him helplessly. He was unacquainted with this sort of powerlessness. Albert retrieved a bar of soap and led the way down to the river after Arthur kicked the fire dead and swung a rifle over his back. If there was trouble, he wouldn't have his guns on him, but it sent a message, if nothing else. The soil crumbled underneath their boots and their shoulders bumped as they walked. This close, Arthur could smell Albert: sweat, pomade, and leather. Arthur's gut burned with sudden need and he acknowledged, on some level, how grossly unfair this world was. All this, and Albert still had his clothes on.

As they walked, Arthur noticed Albert casting his eyes about the horizon, turning this way and that. “What are you twitching at?”

Albert smiled, abashed. “I confess I'm looking for beaver. I suppose I should be more worried about onlookers, but I can't quite give up my project, even in the face of momentary defeat.”

“No one out here for miles and miles, Mason. Just us.”

Albert suddenly shivered and cleared his throat at that. When he continued, his voice was thicker than he remembered. “This is quite the night, isn't it? I'm not accustomed to so many stars in New York.”

“There seems to be a lot out here you're not accustomed to, Mr. Mason.”

“Oh, yes. I'll tell you this much: I don't know quite how I'll ever live somewhere without the threat of getting eaten ever again.”

They came upon the river and Arthur speculated that it wouldn't get any higher than their waists, even at its deepest. The hot, soggy air had them by the balls and were twisting, but it was a clear night. Crickets and frogs called for attention and coyotes chattered, unseen, distantly from the other bank. There was no sign of man as far as the eye could see, aside from themselves. Arthur wondered if this was what Eden had felt like.

Albert dipped in his arms and sighed in relief, giving them a scrub with the bar of soap. Arthur toed out of his boots and shrugged out of his boots. It would only be strange if he made an infernal moron of himself, he reasoned. Pining over Albert like a detestable halfwit was fine, as long as he spared him his yearning. He left his gun belt and rifles as close to the shore as he dared and waded in until the water was just above indecency. He kept his back to Albert, unsure of how comfortable he'd be naked the graces in front of another man. He gestured helpfully at the smooth rocks on the riverbed.

“Watch yourself here, or you'll die before the beavers can get you.”

“I found it highly doubtful that you'd abandon your history of saving my witless skin.” Behind Arthur, Albert cast off his clothes with a hush of fabric and a jingle of a belt that made Arthur's skin break out in goose flesh.

“That is a generous estimate of me. Did that mother of yours ever warn you about being friendly with disagreeable old outlaws?” He tipped his head back to drench his hair.

Albert laughed softly, a little breathless. “Believe me, sir, she'd understand.” He croaked a satisfied groan in his throat as he stepped into the water, his block of soap in one hand. He picked his way carefully across the cool stones and mud in the riverbed until he stood about two arms lengths away from Arthur.

Arthur glanced at Albert out of the corner of his eye. Not for the first time today, his fingers itched for his journal so he could draw his friend. Poor Albert had been the subject of his creative attention for the better part of their acquaintance, but now it seemed that he was always, always on Arthur's mind. Arthur thought that he might have need for a whole new journal of this man before their tour was over and their time was done.

Albert was as tall as Arthur, but not as broad, even with Arthur now reduced to a husk. He was trim and sturdy, but not brawny, with a soft belly. Meager hair peppered his chest and lower belly. His face and arms had always appeared pale and unblemished, but now small brown moles were peppered across the backs of his shoulders. Without his hat, his hair looked soft and thick.

Albert gave his arms a vigorous scrub with the soap. “Oh dear, how I long to visit a barber. I regret not paying him a visit in town.”

“We'll get you a kit in Armadillo. If a New Austin pig farmer can do it, I know you can.”

“How quaint. Soap, Arthur?”

“Please.”

Arthur scrubbed his hair and his neck idly. Albert's soap smelled like lemon and caraway. A loon jeered in the distance and the stars cast enough light to glow on Albert's white skin as he watched them with undisguised wonder, water flooding down from his chest. All was still except for the water pooling around their waists. If there was a heaven, Arthur wanted something like this.

Albert turned to him suddenly, eyes tilting in that way they did when he was happy. Arthur was lost.

“I didn't think you'd come back,” he admitted. His shoulders slumped. “I was thinking I'd die without seeing you again.” Before he could tame his mouth or feel too abashed, Albert was there, and his eyes were suggesting that Arthur was missing something shamefully obvious.

“You found me, Arthur. You always knew where to find me.” That's why you weren't ready to go in the ground, his look said.

Arthur choked back the denial in his throat. Albert was right. Arthur had always come for him. Before he knew that he wouldn't always have him, Arthur had come to him.

Albert laid the pads of his fingers on Arthur's forearm. Arthur jumped like he'd been touched by a hot iron and his heart hammered like a warning.

Albert looked at Arthur with hope and no small amount of hesitance.

“What are you doing, Albert,” Arthur said flatly, and it wasn't a question. Something in his heart menaced, cornered. His back drew up against his will, sensing a threat.

Albert's beseeching smile faded, but his eyes were still light enough to brighten the whole damn prairie. “You won't hurt me,” he intoned, halfway between a prayer and a dictation.

“No, I won't hurt you,” Arthur whispered. “But there's a lot that might come of this that will.” I'm a thief in a world that don't want me no more. I'm the most rotten animal you've met. Run back to New York and stay this time, he begged.

“It seems to me that there's no one more qualified to look out for it than you.” There was that hope again, damn him. Arthur wanted him fiercely. How could he hold him now, after what he'd done? He was ruined. Every part of him that hadn't died on the mountain wasn't long for this place.

Albert's hands caged Arthur's waist, half submerged. Of course he was still trying, because nothing less than calamity could discourage him from anything, even as his hands trembled and he looked half ready to bolt. He looked at Arthur like a treasure, even as Arthur felt like a sour-faced moron.

“Don't want you tangled up in this,” Arthur pleaded, voice hoarse. “I can't have you in this mess.”

Albert kissed Arthur, barely anything more than a light press of lips until Arthur groaned and pulled him flush against his own chest. Albert sighed as Arthur clutched at him implacably, and his mouth tilted up at the corners as Arthur's crushed against his. Albert's skin was even softer than it looked, and his water-logged beard was like feathers against Arthur's chin.

Albert pulled back and laid his forehead into Arthur's neck and breathed him in. Arthur was overcome, immeasurably fond, conquered.

“I said I'd protect you. I hope you'll still let me,” Albert whispered against Arthur's skin.

A bittersweet ache soared through Arthur's chest and heat burned up his neck and cheeks. He didn't know what this was, but he had to defend it. Nothing could happen to him. He clutched fistfuls of Albert's skin, yanking him up and fitting his mouth against his. A hunger rumbled dangerously in his blood as he stamped out any space between them. Albert pushed back, a scorching pressure, tongue sliding against his lips. Arthur shivered and groaned faintly, flagrantly loud in the quiet of the night. Albert's arms slid around Arthur's back, sinking into him with a ragged moan.

“Albert,” Arthur gasped, kneading and pulling at his skin. Albert hushed him with a feverish kiss and ground against him. The hot coil in Arthur's stomach burst and he licked into Albert's mouth again and again and once more, one hand fisting into Albert's hair the way he'd been yearning to for the better part of their friendship. Albert tipped his head back to the stars with something that might have been a curse and Arthur followed him, laying his head against Albert's collarbone, gripping his waist fast and kissing across his clavicle between puffs of air.

Albert pet his fingers through Arthur's hair, soft now, tender. “Arthur,” he whispered, voice hoarse and fond. Arthur wondered how long he could go without it now.

Arthur shushed him and stroked his back. He felt happier and more terrified than he could ever remember being at once. He slid the soap from his grip and washed Albert's back, still keeping him pressed to his front. Arthur felt Albert's smile against the top of his head. Arthur kept Albert pressed close as long as he could, bathing him blindly, nuzzling Albert's chest and neck. He caressed his soapy hands from Albert's curls to his hips and back up again, slow and worshipful. When he couldn't maintain the pretense, he freed Albert with a slow, deep kiss.

Albert looked dazed. He smiled drunkenly at Arthur before tipping back and rinsing off. A splotchy flush blazed his face and chest. Arthur watched, charmed. Brazen, hopeful pleasure fluttered in his gut.

“Don't mind me, if I just...” Albert slid his own soapy hands across Arthur's arms. Arthur obediently allowed Albert to bathe him. He ignored his clumsy inhibition and regarded Albert as Arthur inspected him like a prize. Arthur ached at his grit, even as he flushed. Albert's hands were large and soft against him, and everywhere he touched felt renewed.

“You're making me feel quite fine,” Arthur murmured, unable to look away. A sleepy languidness had overtaken him.

“I feel like a new man,” Albert whispered against Arthur's shoulder as he washed his chest.

Arthur hummed and stole a kiss on his neck, open mouthed and obscene. Albert sighed and Arthur smiled wolfishly.

They separated long enough to wash their own privates—Arthur wanted him, but not at the price of slipping on a rock and ending his life even more prematurely—and trudge to shore, shoulders bumping gently. They slid into their trousers and shoes, but let the night heat dry their bare chests as they walked back to camp.

On their return, Arthur allowed Albert to pull him down into the tent for leisurely kisses that softened Arthur's nerves. Albert's hands traveled his body lazily as he whispered unintelligible praises in Arthur's neck. Arthur felt whole and perfect. Albert's words soothed away the torment that this couldn't last, and if he let this go on he could break Albert too.

Arthur asked Albert to tell him the story about photographing wolves again. Albert groused at being asked to recount a decidedly unflattering tale, but he conceded when Arthur's hands slid up his back. Arthur fell asleep to Albert's whispers, peaceful and deep.

When he woke up, he reckoned it was close to two. Albert was mumbling in his sleep against Arthur's shoulder, using his bedroll as a blanket and Arthur as his mattress. The skin between them was sticky with sweat, and Albert was drooling a little in his sleep. Everything was perfect.

When Arthur woke up once more, he was alone and it was close to noon. He stared at the sun bleached canvas above him, hardly believing his memories from last night. What have you done, idiot, he scolded himself. He stretched, feeling better than he had in weeks. If he was being completely honest with himself, he felt better than he had before the Blackwater heist, even if he was hungry enough to eat Buell. He slipped in his shirt and threw on his new hat before crawling out of the tent.

The heat had already returned with a vengeance. Arthur squinted out on the prairie and saw Albert just out of earshot if he hollered, toying with his camera by the river. Arthur was blindsided by how fiercely he wanted him, his need only stronger now that he'd been tortured by a taste, and how warmly he thought of him. Your heart's all wore out, Morgan, he thought grimly.

He fed Buell and Temperance some wild carrots. Their coats were already shiny and clean, and Arthur guessed that Albert had already treated them to a brushing this morning. He cooed sweetness at them and asked them what he was going to do. Predictably, they were unhelpful.

Arthur slung a rifle over his back and washed up in the river before making his way to Albert. A pit had formed in Arthur's belly, and he suspected it wasn't hunger alone. He looked skyward and pleaded for his infatuation to go hang, as his life was quite vexing enough without Albert Mason introducing another dilemma. But walking over to Albert, he felt there was a line tying them together, gentling with each step closer.

“Just when I thought you'd be too distracted to remember the locals.”

Albert jolted so hard he almost knocked down his camera. He pressed a hand to his chest, and then caught himself in a breathless chuckle when he noticed Arthur. “If it isn't Mr. Morgan!”

“Mr. Mason,” Arthur saluted. His heart felt fit to burst. “How are you?”

“Very fine, sir. There's something to be said for the society one keeps improving their spirits.” Albert smiled slyly at him. Arthur wanted to pull him in by that soft, soft hair and kiss him breathless.

“You'll find better company from the beavers, I think. Have you found them yet?”

“I fear not. Do you think the hunters could have talked them out of saying hello?”

“Bugger the hunters, you're upwind. Here, Mr. Mason.”

Arthur reached into his satchel and pulled out a tin of cover scent lotion. Albert looked at him quizzically as he dashed the lotion against himself and then the front of Albert's vest and the base of his neck. “Do you know how dangerous it is out here?”

“I doubt a beaver will be too interested in my sad hide, Arthur.”

Unbidden, Arthur's hands gripped Albert's shoulders loosely. Arthur exhaled shakily, unmasking his nerves. “There's coyotes. You remember them? I've seen them get hungry enough to come together and take down a horse. And there's cougar in the trees at night. I lived in these fields for years, and I still remember the way they'd scream at you before they came for your neck.”

Albert's eyes lost the haze of the chase that they always got when he worked. He only got this edge when he was focused on capturing the perfect shot, and anything besides that, Arthur included, was a disturbance in his wild, sunlit studio.

“I may have underestimated how appetizing I am in these parts,” Albert said weakly.

“You're tempting,” Arthur murmured, and kissed him. He only meant it to last a moment, but then Albert had to go and slide his hands under Arthur's shirt and touch him like he was afraid that Arthur would crumble to dust before he would get the chance to again. Arthur gentled him, softening the kiss and knocking Albert's hat off so he could stroke his soft curls.

They parted and Albert smiled up at him bashfully.

“Don't move, Albert.”

Albert's smile froze. “Ar—”

“They're on the shore.”

Albert stared at him, oblivious. Then his face lit up and he whirled out of his hands. There was a colony of six beavers on the river bank and swimming nearby. They seemed happy to be about their business and ignore the two slow witted lovebirds up the hill. Albert peered through the camera and tilted in northwest until he caught them in frame. His hands were a flurry. “There! Yes, yes, in the water. I must get this shot. Such beautiful animals.”

Arthur obediently kept clear. Albert held the flash like a holy book and scrambled to take photograph after photograph before he was spotted by the beaver. He was permitted three before they dove back in the stream and the underbrush.

“Will they be any good?” Arthur asked, when he felt it was safe to speak.

Albert finally retrieved his hat from the ground. “What? Oh yes, I think these will do. I count myself lucky that I had time to prepare, and a knowledgeable crook to help me lull them into a false sense of security. Perhaps that is enough for me to blunder my way to greatness.”

“Enough of that now,” Arthur growled, and Albert flushed red.

A hot coal of want sparked in Arthur, but he bit it back. He wanted to kiss Albert stupid and love him as long as Albert would let him, but life wasn't like that. Death wasn't like that. The law didn't want that. He steeled himself. “I don't want you to go forgetting that I won't be around, Albert.”

“I know, Arthur.” For as long as Arthur had known him, his face had always been open and fearless. Now, he hid it beneath the brim of his hat.

“You can't go on and think I'll be there for...all of it. Whatever else is supposed to happen.” Arthur cursed the words. They had never been enough, and now they seemed more worthless than ever before. Arthur felt like a foolish old son of a bitch with nothing to offer.

Albert looked up at Arthur calculatingly. “Arthur, I know.” He laid a hand against the side of Arthur's neck, and it felt like an invocation, something divine on the scrubland of West Elizabeth.

Arthur laid his own two hands on top of Albert's and looked at him, begging. He wasn't sure for what. You godawful clown, Arthur Morgan, he chided himself.

Albert kissed him deeply, one hand on Arthur's hip like an anchor. Arthur whimpered, but Albert hushed him and brushed his thumb over Arthur's gun belt until Arthur's mind quieted and all that could be heard were the birds and the wind.

**Author's Note:**

> Still overcome by the kind comments. Thank you!!
> 
> You can follow me at my new tumblr @radicalskeletal-ao3 for prompts and updates.


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